I Was Never Gentle
by AralynnEvenstar
Summary: Randy's feelings for Christian complicate their feud, and wrestling can be very intimate. Randy Orton/Christian. One-shot. Randy POV. First person POV. Slash.
**Author's note: The Randy Orton and Christian feud in 2011 was probably the best thing to come out of the WWE that year. In interviews, both Randy and Christian have said they are one of each other's favorite opponents. The two had great in-ring chemistry, which is what this pairing was born from. I wrote most of this in 2012 and decided I should just finish it. Hopefully all of my fellow Chrandy shippers are still out there! :)**

 _ **I Was Never Gentle**_

When people watch us in that ring, they don't realize what they're watching. They see all of the passion I have for you and mistake it for the character. For rage. But I suppose rage is just another form of passion. And maybe I am angry because I have to do this to you, take this away from you. I guess, then, it's an easy mistake to make.

Sometimes I wonder if you make the same mistake. Do you look at me and just see the bit? Or do you see the truth? Because you give me _that_ expression, as though you're trying to tell me you know, but then you just smile and shake my hand and say, "Good match, Orton".

Maybe that is your way of letting me down gently, extending the hand of friendship.

In those moments, when I cannot summon the rage to go on, I think of you. I think of how you are counting on me to get through this. In a way, you _trust_ me to get us through this because if I don't sell it, I'll still come out on top. I'll still be The Viper. Smackdown's Golden Boy. But you? You could lose main event status. I hold everything in the palm of my hand.

The old Randy, the cocky Legend Killer who ran his mouth off backstage and let the adrenaline make him mean, THAT Randy would've dangled it over you. He would've relished in making you understand the full extent of the situation. But not now. Now I cradle this power as though it were a precious thing. Beautiful and breakable.

I reveal this to you every night in the only way I know how: I make sure every move is perfect. Every DDT, every scoop slam, dropkick, superplex, body scissors, every knee drop. All of them are smooth and precise. I've been told people call all of our matches pay-per-view quality. That is me being gentle. That is me telling you to trust me.

Still, every night seems to end the same way: RKO.

You fall through the air and I cradle your face against my shoulder. _Careful_ , I tell myself. I try to slow our descent to the mat through the force of my own willpower. To prolong this as much as I can. Too soon I'm pinning you. Too soon it's over.

Then we're backstage and I can only glance at you as we're being led in different directions. I know there is expectation on my face. For what, I'm not sure. You meet my gaze and give me a smile and a slight nod. MORE my insides scream. _Go to him_! Apologize! Shake his hand! _Something_! Then you disappear into the trainer's room to have your shoulder looked at.

There are people talking to me. I think they're saying things like, "Good match, Orton!" Maybe, "You looked great out there!" I don't care. I'm still seeing your face. Polite. Maybe grateful, I can't tell. But in that look there is no passion. No indication that you understand and feel the same way. Only kind professionalism.

I'm thinking about it when you catch me alone in the locker room, finally getting dressed. Your presence shocks me for a moment because I thought I saw you leave a while ago, but I try to snap out of it. The memory of my imagined rejection is still fresh in my head and I worry you'll see it and recognize the shame.

"Hey, Christian. You forget something?" I smile. My tone sounds stretched, but I still hope you take the bait. I know I'd feel more confident if I'd put my shirt on because I feel naked, but I can't move. I'm caught between fight or flight, struggling to remember how one behaves normally during small talk, but I don't trust my hands to do anything. The image must be absurd, and yet you don't respond. You just stand there, staring at me through squinted, thoughtful eyes until I start squirming, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I bring my hand up to rub at my arm, offering a feeble barrier between the two of us. My heart is racing. I expect, at any second, you'll tell me to knock it off, stop all the heated glances and lingering touches, because your expression is hard. In that moment, I am fully prepared for your rejection, to bear everything I was afraid of.

"Is there something that I can help you with?" I barely recognize the broken tone of my voice. I open my mouth to continue talking, probably ramble as a result of my nervousness, when you close the distance between us and kiss me.

You kiss me and it's warm and wet, and I can feel your stubble rubbing against my face, your heavy breath on my skin. I don't respond at first because I'm only barely aware of what is happening. The moment is surreal, as though it's happening to somebody else and I'm only witnessing it. Soon I pull away to breathe, even though it takes everything I have to ignore the voice which is telling me not to. You whimper at the loss of contact and I open my mouth in a daze to ask you what this is, but you whisper, "Randy, please don't stop." And before I can process those words, I've crushed you against me. This time there is no hesitation and I couldn't stop if I wanted to. Not even to breath. How could I, when you asked me not to? I would do anything you asked and the thought is thrilling and terrifying.

When I feel the cool steel of a locker behind me, I realize we've moved somehow. Your fault or mine, it doesn't matter. Not anymore. All that matters is the contrast of metal and the warmth of your shirt on either side of me. Both: tethers to reality. You're so _warm_ and I suddenly need more of it. To feel just how warm. I grasp at the hem of your shirt, groping at the fabric until I can tug it upwards. You take a step back, pull it over your head, fumbling as it gets stuck on your ear, and then you toss it away. I've never seen you more vulnerable.

Our eyes meet for the first time since you kissed me. The look on your face is a mixture of want and uncertainty. I wish there were something I could say to alleviate all of your worry, but I don't want words to ruin this moment, so I put a hand on the side of your face and lead you closer to me. Even when we are flushed against each other, knees, hips, and bare chests connected, I don't look away. I want you to see everything and trust me as you would in the ring. To let you know that, even now, I would do anything to get us through this.

You break our stalemate first. The force of your kiss throws me back into the locker with a crash. It is dramatically loud in the vacant room. I push off and spin us so our positions are switched. When I have you against the wall, I rock my hips into yours and I can feel our erections pressed together through the fabric of our pants. I moan and quickly lift you up off the floor. Your legs wrap around my waist and I lick at the hollow of your collar bone, trailing kisses up to your neck while grinding into your arousal.

"I need…" You trail off.

"Tell me, Christian. Tell me what you need." I'm surprised at how steady my voice is because inside I'm shaking. Inside I feel as though I could topple over any minute, fall to a heap on the floor, just like your shirt not five feet from us.

"I need-ah! Get these pants off!" I let you down and your hands shoot to your belt. The metal jingles together as your hands shake around the leather. I reach out to steady you. You freeze at the contact. I take the opportunity to stroke the back of your hand with my thumb in an attempt to soothe you.

"Do we…?" You ask. Your voice is hoarse, probably from both excitement and fear. Yet when I look in your eyes, I can see the worry and panic.

"Not now, not if you don't want to."

"But you-" You gesture down to where my hand is resting on your half undone belt.

"No." I interrupt. "I would never take more than you feel comfortable giving me."

Your shoulders relax and you look shyly around the room. "So, do you want to come back to my hotel room and talk, or watch a movie, or get room service or something? Unless you're tired…"

"That sounds great."

We both dress in silence and after a minute, I can't take it any longer.

"Not that I want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why?"

You rub the wrinkles out of your sleeve as you try to think of an answer.

"The other night, you grabbed the back of my neck to do a move and when you prepared for it, you hesitated and you ran your thumb behind my ear. The intimacy of it…I haven't stopped thinking about it. Your touch was so…gentle." He blushed. "Then I noticed, even during the most violent moments of our story line, that you were always gentle with me in some way. I tried to tell myself you are that careful with everyone, but you aren't, are you? Not THAT careful."

I wonder for a moment if you expect an answer, but the truth is so obvious. So painfully, screamingly obvious you don't really need one.

"I couldn't decide if you pitied me for everything or if that was your way of telling me you cared about me. Every time I saw you, I wanted to say something, but I always stopped at the last moment and ran off. Tonight I tried to leave, but when I got past the front door I couldn't go any farther. I couldn't get into my car. I just stood out there and paced and talked to myself. I watched everyone else leave and lied about needing fresh air, but you never came back out. I finally got the courage to come back down here."

"I'm glad you did." I say honestly, even if 'glad' is an insufficient word to convey the full magnitude of what I'm feeling.

"This is more than just physical attraction, isn't it?"

"Yes." I don't hesitate.

"Wow." My confession takes your breath away.

I nod.

"Why?" You ask, echoing my earlier question.

"I don't know. I touch you and I…" I hesitate because I honestly don't know why. There are a million reasons, but I don't think I could explain any of them. Instead, I helplessly reach out for you, my fingertips grazing your arm, and I'm overwhelmed by what the simple touch does to me. Overwhelmed by how deeply it resonates inside of me. It must show on my face because you bring your hand up and wind your fingers through mine.

"Let's get out of here."

All I can think is _yes_. Yes.


End file.
